Sweet shards aground which we collect,
Which mar our hands and seal our fasts,
We’ll place into a crown of grace.
A thing of beauty above our face.
A mother’s touch has welded our selves.
Clever redemption of words to tell.

But droplets adhere where friction creates,
And hazy words too subtle overtake.
Where we should go friendless,
Where we should sigh righteous,
Apart from the throng our tendons forget
Left stumbling about toward the bend of the tent.

In shadowy praise we soon again go
And grip made anew pull tight with the soul.